sleep-”
“ I can't sleep knowing Jimmy's in pain.”
“ But he's not in pain. He's out of pain, thanks to Dr. Thornton and his competent staff.”
“ I just want to see him.”
“ I'm sorry, but that's out of the question. Look.” He showed her some Quaalude tablets. You know what these are, don't you? These'll help you, I promise, and you'll get by this tragic time. You really do need to get your sleep, some peace of mind, and when you see him tomorrow, you'll be just fine, and when he sees you, you'll look so-”
A nurse pushed through the door and said, “Barbara, Jimmy's being X-rayed now for broken bones. He's been sedated, but he's in a lot of discomfort and there's some internal bleeding. We'll need to operate and we need the consent of his next of kin, so-”
“ What? What? But Dr. Thornton said-”
“ Dr. who?”
“ This man, this doctor here-” She turned and found no one there.
“ What man? Who're you talking about? Maybe we'd better get you a Valium.”
But the girl rushed to the hallway and saw the ghost trail of the man who had been so reassuring, and she shouted, “Come back, mister! Doctor! You!”
But he was gone.
The nurse tried to console her.
It had been a close encounter and he felt his nerves rubbed raw at having lost the opportunity which had been opening up to him with each moment before the nurse stepped in and destroyed his plans. He got back into his van, feeling great frustration and anger, but the night was young, and he had a great deal of patience, and the young woman would have to come out sometime. He could use the knockout injection, or chloroform or brute force, but there was a police car parked outside the emergency entrance.
Should he wait or go? Would she wait all night inside or would she come out?
He waited for fifteen minutes and this stretched into a half hour and still she did not show. He began recalling earlier blood-takings he had performed, going through each in its every detail, reliving the events one by one. He recalled the first, Toni. She'd been a scrubwoman at a small hospital in St. Louis, Missouri. She was not particularly pretty, but her blood was good.
He recalled how a year before Toni, he had gotten his idea for the spigot; how he had drawn it up with great care, sketching it in detail in pencil. He thought the design so perfect that no one could have trouble with manufacturing the device. He took it to Maurice Lowenthal, the so-called genius in the company who had designed medical instruments on demand for doctors in the past. Lowenthal's custom-made instruments sold for large sums, making money for Balue-Stork Medical Supply.
Lowenthal wanted first to know what job the spigot was supposed to perform, saying he could not create without full knowledge of the purpose of the instrument. He understood forceps, clamps, scalpels, mirrors, visors, but this was beyond him-a tracheotomy tube with a control device? Why? To punish the poor patient by shutting off his air supply when the doctor was so moved to do so? Lowenthal understood tubes and wires and cables, anything he could fashion with his hands and his mind, but he wanted to grasp the use of the instrument.
So he took it back from Lowenthal and did nothing with it for a time. Lowenthal remained curious, however, and one day asked him who was the doctor who had asked for this strange device to be designed. He'd told Lowenthal the first name that came into his head, Grubber in Indiana.
“ Ahhh, yeah, a strange bird, that Grubber.”
“ Yeah, strange,” he had agreed.
“ Did you ever find out what the thing was to be used for?”
“ Grubber thought it might be the answer to relieving the pressure of any liquid buildup in the body,” he had said with such confidence that he had surprised even himself. But he had been planning to come back to Lowenthal again with the design, and so he had practiced this answer. “Water on the knee, you name it.”
“ And water on the brain, I suppose?”
“ Why not, if it can be designed accurately.”
“ With a thing like this, it ought to be patented, my friend, and if we patent it, it becomes the property of the company, and what do we get?”
“ Yeah, I know, but those are the breaks.”
“ I'm up for retirement soon,” said Lowenthal. “Tell you what, if we can go halfies on the rights, I'll design it at my shop at home, but it can't be used until after November, when I retire, understood? If it's a success, then everyone will want it, and we will be rich men.”
He agreed with Lowenthal, and Lowenthal had created the prototype, unaware that he had also created the perfect murder weapon.
# # #
In Zion, Illinois, Jessica found what everyone feared, another Tort 9 with the markings of the Wekosha vampire. Maybe Kaseem was right. Maybe it was his man, after all. There was an all-points bulletin released on Kaseem's man, the description going out to every cop and law enforcement agent in the city and its environs. It appeared the killer did live somewhere in the greater Chicago area, and that it could be Davie Rosnich, living under an assumed name. He would be about the right age, and he was a known blood-drinker, or so the military said.
Throughout her evidence gathering the Chicago bureau guys were very helpful, very professional. The scene was nothing like Wekosha, although Kaseem and Forsythe were forever in her way. Everything had been kept exactly as it was found and no one had been allowed to wander aimlessly around the house or the body. It was a controlled situation for a change.
She didn't have to do her own photographs, nor did she have to tell the photographer how to do his job. She had all the cooperation she required. FBI's Chicago bureau chief, Joe Brewer, was an old friend of Otto's and Otto had paved the way for her.
It was almost a carbon-copy killing of the Wekosha nightmare, with a few notable exceptions. The tendons were not cut. The rope used was the same, but the knot was a bit different. The sperm was liberally smeared about the orifices and the mutilation cuts were just as horrible, but the severed limbs were thrown across the room and lay where they had fallen. The eyes were slit, as was the jugular. And again, there was a distinct absence of blood, or even the smell of blood. She determined first and quickly that the neck wound was once again superficial and the blood about the lips of this large wound had been smeared on, most likely with a brush. She knew instinctively that they were dealing with the same maniac.
She knew she would get no usable prints; that he worked with gloves, most likely surgical gloves. She guessed that any blood they might find would belong to the victim, that the killer hadn't so much as nicked himself.
“ Found something over here,” said Joe Brewer, “a capsule… some sort of medication.”
She went to have a look. It was a red and white capsule. She asked Brewer's men to search for any matching pills, or a container, to rule if it belonged to the victim or the killer. The search turned up nothing.
“ Indicating a possible connection to the killer,” Jessica said. “We'll have to analyze it at the Lab.”
“ We can do it downtown,” replied Brewer.
Jessica held her breath. She dared not hope that finally the fastidious killer had overlooked something. She would hold her prayers until the lab could tell her whether it was or was not a viable clue.
Brewer was just as anxious. He sent the capsule out immediately with strict orders that it take priority. Meanwhile, working in conjunction with Kaseem, Brewer had put together the all-points bulletin on the soldier that Kaseem sought. She was glad for this, because it kept at least one of the military guys off her back while she worked over the cadaver. Forsythe had to leave the house on two occasions, unable to hold back the meal he'd taken on the plane.
The kill was much fresher than the Copeland girl had been, and from her clothing and photos about the house, they established in a matter of minutes that the victim was a hospital nurse. Jessica felt so close to the killer now that she thought she could smell him in the room, a foul odor indeed.
She stood before the dead woman and she visualized his movements, each in turn. He first takes control of
